


More Than I Can Take

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, i love implied relationships don't you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Every woman's allowed to have a breakdown at least once in her life. It allows you to build yourself up again, but it's a painful process. Sobbing alone with no one to hold you. It's the delicate sound of falling apart that's more than Vera Bennett can take.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, entering the Wentworth fandom as some new blood. I found the series in my library, fell in love, and watched the rest on Netflix. I'm dying for Season 5. So, here's a little second person POV fic featuring Vera! In season 2, "More Than I Can Take" begins to play and I found it very inspiring hence the title. Anyway, hope you all enjoy this!

Governor.

You've dreamt of this position since the dawn of your career. It's what brought you back to that prison every morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, full of hope. After your notoriously late night shifts, you'd come home in time to tune out the belligerent nagging of your mother. A simple “yes, mum” or “no, mum” or “thank you, mum” would suffice. You closed the door behind you and peered into the mirror that you've had since you were thirteen years old. Nimble fingertrips would trace your rigid shoulder pads, imagining a crown here and there.

Well, you have it now and it's not what you imagined it to be.

Wentworth Correctional Facility is a microcosm. It's a city built upon hopeful laws now defiled by corruption's course. You had hoped the reopening would be a fresh start, but it wasn't. The women rebel. You're tired and you're stressed when you know that this is just a label for a pre-existing condition. You're empty.

Like clockwork, you leave work. Power rests heavy on your shoulders. Brings them down. With each passing day, your uniform feels like a straitjacket. You imagine that's how Joan – correction: Ferguson – must have felt locked away in the hospital. You let out a choked laugh. Blame it on your bleeding heart.

You think about what you don't have. Makes you feel selfish. Doesn't it, Vera? You'd seen it with Franky and Bridget from afar; how it blossomed into something beautiful. From the window, you saw them embrace in a timeless dance. You don't know why it hurt. It simply did. Why, you'd even seen it with the former Governor chasing Jianna's ghost. How she pushed you away in that painful cycle of rebirth with Anderson screaming her bloody lungs out. That stung, too.

You see these things and feel a slow burn within. You envy what Doyle and Westfall have. You wished – what? – that you could have your cake and eat it too?

Mother hurt you. Fletch hurt you. Joan hurt you.

The unholy trinity.

Jake's bound to hurt you, too. Funny how you trusted him enough to assign him as your deputy. Call it nepotism. Call it a need for something more. You remember the way his hands felt on you. Rough yet reassuring. You felt his smile against your ear. Though you smiled with him, you yearned for something – someone – else. And for what? Would you have liked for Ferguson to treat you the same way? To feel Joan's sinfully dark gloves upon your throats, her husky voice crooning half-hearted promises. Too vanilla. Too obvious.

You go to your childhood home, trapped like a mouse in a hole, and you fumble with your keys for a solid five minutes. Swear low underneath your breath. Your heel hits the door in retaliation. It swings open. The silence is familiar, but not welcome. You toss your bag onto the ground and slam the door shut behind you. Smith's dead. Ferguson's locked up again. You have a harping suspicion that Stewart will betray you; you ignore it.

You ignore it and fall to your knees in the kitchen. Nylon stockings vow to hide the purple bruising come the morrow. Your hands shield your face and you sniffle. Sniffles turn into ugly gasps for air. You tear yourself apart. Nothing helps the ache in your chest. The heartache your mother never warned you about. Salty tears roll down your cheeks. You rack your hands through your hair, manicured nails trapped by your roots and your scalp. This is what it feels like to break down. To be so out of touch with yourself.

In the morning when you roll up to the prison, you'll smile and pretend you're fine. You'll be optimistic. No, you'll be practical. You'll fall into the shoes of your former mentor with rigid pragmatism. You can no longer afford to be a mouse in the correctional facility. In the comfort of your home, however, you wallow. You weep and wonder what might have been. How it might have felt, just once, if she were to hold you like she held a ghost called Jianna Riley.

No one's here to hold you.

And you can't even hold yourself up.

It's more than you can take.


End file.
